


The Skin And Bones Of You

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-01 22:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21439858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley has spent six thousand years wanting something he doesn't think he deserves. It's only natural to assume he won't get to keep it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1120
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	The Skin And Bones Of You

Crowley has always woken to an empty bed, the sheets cold everywhere his body doesn't touch. The only limbs ever tangled in them are his own, pillows arranged to his liking and no one else's. He's never had to share, not that demons share particularly well, but it's only ever been his space, his territory, no one else's.

But last night, after everything, Aziraphale had followed him into his bed as if he belonged there too. As if it was a space Crowley had left open - had been leaving open - for him, and Crowley couldn't really argue with that.

He can still feel the angel, before he's even properly awake, the warmth of his body still next to and half underneath him. An indulgent sprawl of soft limbs and quiet, breathy noises, the smell of ozone, aged paper and sweetness that always clings to him. He still doesn't quite know how to bear the new reality of this, of the angel finally in his bed, finally something close to his, after all this time. Crowley thinks he might have been slowly squeezing him in his sleep, and it occurs to him that he has no idea how to sleep with another person. He wonders if Aziraphale will let him learn. The angel doesn't really sleep as a habit, but maybe he will for Crowley. 

Maybe they can learn together, all these new intimacies that come with sharing their spaces, and their bodies.

His eyes open, wander sleepily from the fluffy half-curls on the opposite pillow, to a softly rounded shoulder, leading to the angel's stretched-out arm, bare against the sheets, fingers half curled in sleep. Crowley can already feel a smile stretching open on his face, when he realises suddenly that he's looking at the long curl of a bruise. The smile stops growing and tips down, inverts as he considers it, ringing Aziraphale's pale wrist, that darkened smear of colour feels like an accusation.

It's unsettling, and it leaves something squirming coldly in his gut, because it doesn't belong. Aziraphale shouldn't be bruised, there's no reason for the angel to have been harmed. The only one he's been with is - 

Crowley can't stop his hand from carefully reaching out, from gently touching the smooth inside of Aziraphale's wrist and turning it. The bruise flows over the bone, red to purple, and it's not the only mark on the angel, just the first one he finds. When he tips his head down he can see faint lines under his cheek, can feel a subtle prickling drag where they've healed overnight, they trail half way down Aziraphale's back, red against his pale skin. 

The squirming inside Crowley turns sharp with realisation, skin contracting in quietly waking horror. He leans back, pushes himself up and away from the warmth of his angel and _looks_.

There are more bruises on the curve of Aziraphale's soft waist, reddened and stark, pressed deep into the flesh, and as he nudges the sheet down with a foot there are more still, over the soft, sloping sides of his heavy thighs. It makes something coil and clench inside him, and Crowley wants it to be horror, he _needs_ it to be horror. Because _he did this_. 

Crowley has seen so much of Aziraphale over the years. He's seen him exhausted, and dirty, he's seen him dishevelled and angry, he's seen him drunk, and distressed, and upset, even quietly grieving. But he's never once seen Aziraphale bruised, has never seen the angel with marks on him, never seen him wounded. Crowley carefully draws his hand back, off the angel's waist, and away from his skin. He stops touching him entirely.

With the distance he can see that the marks on Aziraphale's back are not faint lines but scratches. Careless and greedy, pale skin torn open in quick drags of Crowley's nails. So caught in his own pleasure that he hadn't cared. Had he even fucking _noticed?_

On the other side of Aziraphale's shoulder, half-turned into the pillow and only just visible, is a mark which isn't a scratch or a bruise. It's a bite, the half curve of it obvious and messy. And that's somehow worse, so much worse. Because it's obvious that he'd lost control, he'd lost control and done - all of this. 

The bruises on Aziraphale's thighs are the darkest, red blooming into mauve and blue - as if Crowley had just dug his fingers in and took what he wanted - and even thinking it makes something inside him quietly cave in. Because he didn't, that's not how it happened, that wasn't what it had been like between them. He remembers, he remembers the way they'd touched each other, the way they couldn't stop touching each other. Until Aziraphale had pulled him close and opened up for him. The way his solid thighs had lifted and pulled at him, clenched at his waist as he moved. Crowley remembers holding Aziraphale, remembers his hands sliding up his arms, pressing him down, remembers the noises the angel had made when he did it, the way he'd said his name. And it had meant fucking _everything_ to him.

Is he remembering it wrong? Is he lying to himself? Was it something different entirely?

Is this what Crowley has been all along? He's suddenly and painfully furious with himself. Is this what he is? Underneath all the protests and the human facade that he wears. All the talk of him being better than other demons, of being different, of there being something good in him. That he could be worthy of Aziraphale. The first chance he gets to be with someone he loves, and he leaves them bruised and bleeding. Not a punishment for him this time, but for Aziraphale - this is what you get for loving a demon.

And the worst of it, after everything he'd done, Aziraphale must have let Crowley curl into him. He'd forgiven him, still _trusted_ him and fallen asleep beside him, and Crowley knows now that he doesn't fucking deserve it. Anger turns into despair just as easily, when he realises that there's no guarantee Aziraphale will want to come to his bed again. That, after six thousand years, he may have ruined this before he even had the chance to have it. Ruined it with his own impatient, greedy, selfish lust.

No, Crowley can fix this, he can make this right, he can apologise, he can beg if necessary. He knows Aziraphale loves him, Aziraphale would - Aziraphale would forgive him. _Aziraphale is the only one who's ever forgiven him._ He can explain that he lost control, but it wouldn't happen again, and he would do anything Aziraphale needed him to do, anything Aziraphale wanted. That he would make it up to him. Promise he'd never hurt him like that again. 

But isn't that what people like him always do? Make excuses, promise it won't happen again?

He must have made a noise, a grating drag of air through his dry throat. Because Aziraphale murmurs something sleepy and rolls over, all unbearable softness and nudity. Crowley watches his eyes flutter, watches the smile open on his face - before he takes in Crowley's hunched over, miserable form, two feet away and refusing to come an inch closer.

Aziraphale's forehead immediately wrinkles in concern as he pushes himself out of the warm sheets, legs drawing up. 

"Crowley, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, sleep-rough, but he says his name so warmly, looks so naked and touchable in Crowley's bed. Where he'd come so trustingly, let Crowley strip him and open him and make love to him. 

And the guilt all but rises up and fucking chokes him.

"You didn't tell me I -" Crowley can't manage the rest, can't say 'hurt you,' not in this context. He gestures helplessly, at where Aziraphale's wrist is now tilted to the bed, bracing his hand to hold him up. "I would have stopped."

Aziraphale lifts his arm and finds the bruises there, makes a curious little '_oh_,' sound, as if he's surprised to see them. 

"I'd never hurt you, you know that," Crowley says. He wants it to be true, even though Aziraphale can see for himself that it's a lie, twisting his arm to follow the curve of it that would perfectly match Crowley's hand. 

Aziraphale seems to realise that the mark is not a curiosity to Crowley, not a thing to be noticed and investigated after a night together, but something altogether darker and more unpleasant, for what it represents. But there's still nothing upset in his expression, he's frowning instead, as if he doesn't see anything wrong. 

"Oh, my dear, you didn't." Aziraphale says gently. "And I would have told you to stop if you had done."

Which is somehow worse, the thought of Aziraphale having to say something. The thought of Aziraphale ever having to _make_ him stop. 

"But I should have known," Crowley bites out. "You shouldn't have to bloody tell me -"

Aziraphale touches him, curls fingers around his arm, and makes a soft, quieting noise. As if he's a wounded animal braced to bolt.

"Crowley you didn't hurt me," he insists.

"That is pretty fucking obviously not true," Crowley manages finally, voice catching in his throat before he can say more. The mark on Aziraphale's throat is more stark now he's upright, a curved imprint of sharp teeth, bracketed by two much deeper indentations, quite obviously not from human teeth, scabbed over and half healed overnight, but still an angry red, which only tells Crowley how deep it was originally. He wants to reach out, to touch it, to show Aziraphale what he did. Because how could he not know? 

"Crowley, my love, will you please look." Aziraphale's hand curves over Crowley's own waist, fingers warm on his skin, a slow glide that is clearly meant to draw his attention. He looks down, watches Aziraphale's pale fingers dance pointedly on the darkened skin that marks Crowley's own hip. The shape of fingertips left there in faint spills of red and blue, and it makes him curve in surprise. The unexpected colour takes all the air from him, leaves him weak somehow, the idea that Aziraphale had wanted him enough in turn to dig in. Had wanted him enough to keep pulling while the skin compressed, and ached, and bled underneath, just for him. Something important in him goes liquid and hot for want of it.

Oh.

_Oh._

Crowley sighs out a breath, and he can't help the short, half-broken noise of quiet understanding.

"Neither of us are delicate, not even with each other." Aziraphale's voice is soft, hand suddenly on his face, thumb pressing at his cheekbone. "Especially not with each other, and we waited a very long time. I think we can both be forgiven a little...ah, enthusiasm."

Crowley's throat clicks out a noise, refusal to let Aziraphale be so forgiving. The angel pulls him in, not even pretending that he finds it difficult to get Crowley's lanky weight against him. And he thinks that's making a point too. About the hurt they're both more than capable of doing to each other.

"I remember everything,” Aziraphale says firmly, sounding far more pleased than accusing. “And you didn't do a single thing to me that I didn't want, that I wasn't happy to give you. I'd wager the ones on your hips aren't the only marks you have. Should I feel guilty about them too?" 

Crowley shakes his head, roughly, because that's ridiculous. It's ridiculous that Aziraphale could ever feel guilty for wanting him that much. But maybe Crowley is the one of them that's supposed to bruise, the one of them that's damned, isn't he supposed to like it?

"Should I leave your bed, for fear that you'll hate me for them?" Aziraphale is still watching him, as if Crowley's misery is the only thing that's hurting him.

"No," Crowley protests. Horrified at the thought of it. “Of course not.”

"Well then. I don't feel harmed." Aziraphale has a hand on Crowley's neck, rubbing at his jaw, and the touch is strangely grounding, a soothing shift of sensation that is slowly making his spine unclench. "And though I understand why you might find the marks you've left on me an unpleasant discovery, there's nothing to blame yourself for. I'm rather certain I half lost myself touching you as well." 

"I still shouldn't have done this." Crowley's fingers finally have the courage to lift, to reach out and touch the bite, the raw mark his teeth had left, slowly, carefully. But he doesn't miss the way Aziraphale's shoulder pulls up, just a little. Protecting a place that hurts.

"If it upset me I would have healed it," Aziraphale says carefully. Which brings up the curious question of why he hasn't. Why he's willing to let such a thing stay, where anyone would be able to tell that he - that a demon had – that Crowley had - he finds the only answer leaves an ache in his mouth, a swell of something dark and satisfied in his gut.

He's never felt so conflicted about anything in his fucking life.

Aziraphale seems to notice and take pity on him.

"If it truly upsets you to leave me marked. You can make it up to me. You can be as gentle as you like next time."

Next time. Just like that. Aziraphale says it so easily, as if there was never a question of there not being more.

"Nrgk," Crowley manages, because he's not sure how to go from guilty, nauseous horror, to a sort of hopeful, desperate arousal. 

Aziraphale smiles, and it's gentle and amused. Crowley's glad one of them is finding this whole situation entertaining.

"Don't you think we should let ourselves have this? We waited so long to touch each other. Don't you think we should let ourselves learn to be with each other, before we start feeling guilty for our desires."

"Doubt you have any desires to be guilty for," Crowley reasons, and his voice is too rough, body no longer certain what it's supposed to be feeling.

"You don't know that,” Aziraphale says. As if it's something he's thought about a lot, as if there are things he's felt ashamed of.

Crowley, who's pretty sure he'd let Aziraphale cut him open and crawl inside if that's what he wanted, can't help but try and reassure him. Manages a noise which sounds doubtful, and a tense attempt at a smile. If anything Crowley is vaguely embarrassed now, because he's fairly sure that he overreacted in some way, forced Aziraphale do the reassuring for once. And there's something deeply unfair about that.

But Aziraphale has stopped looking quite so worried, warm hands on Crowley's waist, touching him so easily. It's all still so new, Aziraphale's hands on him, the way he looks at him now, as if he doesn't care if anyone else sees. Everything Crowley has ever wanted to see on his face just out there in the open. He has no defences against it, he hasn't learned how, still isn't sure he wants to.

Crowley's drawing him in with his hands and kissing him, before he can talk himself out of it. He's opening the warmth of the angel's mouth, for the soft wet inside, for the way his breath rushes over Crowley's cheek. Naked enough that there's nowhere to hide the way it makes him react, makes him lift and harden, helpless not to press into Aziraphale's body and find him only a few steps behind. Still impossible to think that Aziraphale wants him just as much.

"We don't have to do anything if you'd rather just lay here for a while," Aziraphale says quietly, like he'd be perfectly happy to do that too. When all Crowley wants to do is kiss him, touch him, draw warm, needy sounds from his mouth and show Aziraphale how good he can be for him.

"Making it up to you," Crowley insists, easing him back into the sheets in one slow, sliding fall.

"I didn't mean now," Aziraphale says with a laugh, though he falls all the same, presses into Crowley's sheets and opens. And it's good, it's better than good, the way they gently press together, naked skin still shocking in its strange intimacy. But Crowley can't resist moving down Aziraphale's body, sliding through his hands, passing throat and collar bones, and tight pink nipples, mouth briefly open and wet on Aziraphale's stomach. Crowley's spine bends easily, eagerly even, because there's something he wants, something they didn't do last night. He hopes he's making it clear enough, because he's still a little afraid to push, but Aziraphale opens his legs around him like Crowley doesn't belong anywhere else, understanding and nudging him down further. Until his next exhale flares across the flushed, heavy line of Aziraphale's cock.

Aziraphale hums something pleased and threads his fingers into Crowley's hair.

"I shan't pretend I haven't imagined your lovely, clever mouth on me," he says quietly, and Crowley makes a noise at the confession, mouth opening far enough to lay his tongue against the head, to curl it around and down while Aziraphale's legs fall open on a shiver of delight. "Do you have any idea how distracting you are?"

Crowley hums an affirmative, and opens his mouth wider, drawing him in and closing around him with a low noise of pleasure. It's strangely intimate, holding Aziraphale in his mouth, in one of the strongest most dangerous parts of himself. The fact that Aziraphale trusts him enough to slide inside, let Crowley be open and wet around him. His whole body gives a warm shiver, knees pulling up as he makes a space for himself, and he presses that weight against his tongue and sucks, head bobbing slowly, indulgently.

Aziraphale pulls up one of those bruised thighs, presses it against the side of Crowley's chest, a soft, heavy press against his ribs, until he touches it, grips it, feels the warmth of it.

"You are the only one I would let bruise me," Aziraphale says shakily, voice gone deep, a catch in it every time Crowley pulls him back into his mouth. "The only one." 

Crowley moans around his cock and shudders just a little, opening up more and pulling him all the way inside, throat flexing open almost helplessly at the first nudge against and into it. 

"Ah, and I will not let you feel guilty for indulging me."

Crowley doesn't even have to move his head, he can squeeze and pull from this position, but he finds he can't stay still. He wants to draw back and take Aziraphale inside again, wants to feel the slick, warm weight of him on his tongue, the shaky pull of Aziraphale's fingers in his hair. Wants to indulge in the greedy sucks that make half-caught words fall past the angel's lips, so close to a curse. It's slow and indulgent and he can feel saliva roll down his throat, and over the curve of his lower lip.

"You think I couldn't make you stop if I wanted to." Aziraphale's fingers suddenly tighten in his hair, a clenched fist that holds him in position half way down his cock. It leaves Crowley unable to move against the strength of him. 

Crowley groans, messy and helpless, under that tangling pressure, feeling it burn his scalp and drag arousal straight down his spine. And he's pushing a hand down the bed, making it wet with a desperate miracle and grasping at his own stiff cock. He lets his hips push up, short, tight movements where he's folded over, driving his cock through his fist until Aziraphale gasps and releases him, lets him move again. Not as slow this time, the bob of his head gone ragged, tongue flat against the slickness of Aziraphale, suction quick and messy.

"You really think you could – ah - pin me down if I didn't want you to?" Aziraphale continues.

Crowley swallows convulsively, and wants it, _wants_ it, but he wants Aziraphale to prove that he can't almost as much. He has to stop touching himself for a moment, cup his balls and just feel the weight of his arousal while Aziraphale tilts his head with both hands. Aziraphale gives a breathy little 'oh' when Crowley looks at him, and he knows his eyes are orange-gold, corner to corner. One hand digs back in his hair, encourages him to pick up the pace, hips lifting to meet him and Crowley suddenly wants, desperately wants, Aziraphale to pin him still again. Wants his fingers to close tight in his hair, to hold him there, and make him take it. He thinks Aziraphale would do it if he asked, he thinks the angel would indulge him more than he's willing to admit.

Aziraphale shudders a breath, like he'd heard him think it anyway, fingers tangling in his hair, clenching quick and easy when Crowley whines around him. He's moving into him now, quick pushes that nudge him deliciously against the back of Crowley's throat and down on every thrust.

"I'm so close," Aziraphale says weakly, words half stolen. "Can I - in your mouth." 

Crowley can't help but moan at the gentle, needy tone to the words, wants to tell him how much he wants it too. That Aziraphale can come anywhere he likes, he could drag Crowley off his cock by his hair and come all over his face if it was what he wanted. Instead he just groans and nods awkwardly, opens for him, opens everything for him. 

Aziraphale murmurs his name, one foot flat on the bed, hips working in quick, greedy pushes, until there's no rhythm, just a desperate search for his own release. It's not long before Aziraphale's hand pulls him down, holds his head still while he comes in thick pulses that coat Crowley's sharp back teeth, and the bend of his throat. He swallows, thickly, instinctively, squeezing on everything he can reach, breathing raw and satisfied. Until the angel gives a shaky moan, fingers loosening and then petting almost apologetically at the unruly strands of Crowley's hair.

Crowley slides back, mouth empty and wet, faced pressed to Aziraphale's stomach, shivery with want. His wet hand wraps back around himself, moving in greedy pulls, dragging him closer and closer to the edge.

Until the bed shifts, and Aziraphale reaches down, one hand curled round the ball of Crowley's shoulder, stopping the motion. Crowley groans, raises dazed eyes to Aziraphale's, waiting for him to tell him what he wants. 

"On them," Aziraphale demands, pulling up his thigh so the soft spread of bruises is visible.

Crowley moans, helpless at the idea of it. He wants it, in a way that's tangled and complicated and desperate, shifting up the bed, knees spreading, one hand working on himself the other dropping to touch, to grip and lift Aziraphale's leg. Just to the side of his fingerprints in the muscle, where Crowley had grabbed him and _held_ him. He's too close to speak, drawing up tight and heavy with the need of it. Until he's folding over, pleasure coring him open, braced over Aziraphale's thigh, leaving wet lines of come across the flares of colour he'd already left on the angel's skin, working himself through it in long, aching shivers. While Aziraphale sighs satisfaction and digs his fingers into the meat of Crowley's waist.

"Aziraphale," he breathes, desperately, voice raw and aching. He wants to say more, 'I love you,' rolls thick in the back of his throat, but he can't choke it free.

The angel draws him down and in after, pulls him against his body until they're tangled up together, one hand moving slowly in Crowley's hair, while Crowley clings to him, and trembles, and slowly comes down.

"I love every facet of you," Aziraphale says quietly, and Crowley doesn't know how he ever managed to have this, when he's never been good enough for anything else.


End file.
